7. Beau
BEAU
Oh shit, it's worse than I thought.
I've seen Shelby at the driving range and in her lessons with Chad, but I didn't pay very much attention to them. For starters, I know if she saw me looking, she'd bite my head off. Because…well…Shelby.
Second, I have enough going on with my game. I don’t have the time to watch the golf swing of the woman who hates me.
If you’re going to be the guy who blasts one of the biggest tournaments on your tour, you need to be able to back up your play.
I can’t talk the talk about how tournaments are only out for themselves and then go out and play horribly.
If I’m going to say those things, I need to be the best. Which comes from preparation.
Practice. Focus. I might be brazen, and often times cocky, when I’m at tournaments or on camera, but when it comes to the preparation, I’m none of those things.
It’s just me, my club, and my ball. Back to basics. Back to the game I grew up loving.
Which is why I didn’t realize Shelby’s swing is way worse than I imagined. And if something doesn’t change very soon, she’s going to be the headline of the tournament, and not in a good way.
I wince as I watch her ball go off the tee.
She pulled up too early—a problem she’s had since she was a kid.
If the ball makes it a hundred fifty yards I’ll be surprised.
Especially considering the fucking insane grip Chad has her doing.
I’ve seen him offer this to his clients before—essentially the hands are reversed in what a normal golf grip would be.
It worked once, which, in his mind, means he’s figured out the next best thing in golf swings.
He hasn’t. It was a fluke, but he’s taken that thing that worked once and has tried to convince the golf world he’s the smartest guy in the room. And somehow, others are vouching for him, which is baffling to me. Something isn’t adding up.
But all I can do is sit back and watch Chad fuck up Shelby’s swing more and more. And I don’t know if it’s because he’s so stubborn he won’t budge from his “method,” or that he’s trying to actually sabotage her.
And if he is, Shelby doesn’t seem to care.
She’s not budging from it. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
And if that’s true, then Shelby needs a grippy sock vacation.
Sure, her short game has been fine. She's chipping and putting with ease because she’s using her old grip.
That swing isn’t an issue because it doesn’t put the strain on her shoulder that her driver technique does.
But watching her tee off, knowing what she used to be able to do, and seeing her now in a stance and a swing that's completely wrong for her, is slowly killing me.
“Get that look off your face,” she bites as she comes back to the cart, slamming her driver back into her bag.
“Sorry,” I say sincerely. “It’s just…I didn’t realize you were still struggling.”
I don’t mean to pour salt in the wound, but it’s the truth.
We’ve played six holes so far today, and none of her drives have even come close to cracking the two hundred yard barrier.
Which, for a professional golfer of any gender, should be an easy barrier to cross.
But for Shelby, it’s her white whale. With every bad shot she wants it more, but somehow it’s getting worse.
“We’re still working on a few things,” she says, not making eye contact with me as we drive to her ball.
“Are any of those things making you better?”
I don’t mean for my comment to have a smart-ass undertone to it. But it’s kind of hard to keep the tone in my question even when working with Chad is clearly making her worse.
“Why do you care?” she spits out as I stop next to her ball.
“I didn’t before,” I say honestly. “But now that we’re about to play together, I’d like to not have to explain to the media why my playing partner hit the ball farther when she was fourteen.”
Low blow? Sure. Truth? Absolutely.
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.”
“Literally never.”
“Really? I beg to differ, Belle.”
Our eyes lock, and she knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Sure, it might not have been “fucking” she wanted to do back then. We were kids. But I’m not a fool, and I know for a fact that my little sister’s best friend, at least at one point, wanted to kiss me…
“Why are you swinging like that?”
I’ve played with Shelby every week for the past six years. I know her swing just as well as I know my own. Which is why I just did a double take when I saw her lining up her shot completely differently than she normally does.
That and she’s wearing a skirt. Shelby never wears skirts.
Her footwork is completely off. She’s cocking her hands differently, and she’s so twisted up, I’m not sure how she’s going to make contact.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s a first-time golfer trying to replicate a swing she saw in a six-way funhouse mirror, not one of the best junior golfers in the state.
“It’s going to help my drive,” she says, not making eye contact with me as she tries to adjust her weight. Which is going to be a losing battle because of how off the rest of her body is aligned.
“Says who?”
This finally makes her look up at me, defiance covering her face. “People.”
Well that narrows it down. “Any specific people? Or are you taking advice from randoms now?”
I’m actually shocked Shelby admitted she took advice from anyone.
Since she started playing, the girl has been determined to learn the game on her own.
Never asking for help. Balking at advice I’d give her.
I know her dad can’t afford lessons—I overheard her say that to Gabi once—but apparently to Shelby that means she can’t take help from anyone.
Except now she’s taking it from people. And call me curious that I want to know who “people” are.
“If you must know, Chad said I should try it.”
I don’t mean to bark out a laugh, but I can’t hold it in.
She’s taking swing advice from Chad? Don’t get me wrong, the guy’s my best friend, and a pretty good golfer in his own right, but the dude has paid for every part of his swing.
He’s had private coaches since he was a toddler.
What does he know about fixing anyone else?
“Is it working?”
“Kind of,” she says, though it’s more of her way of admitting a half truth. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”
I lean against my driver as I stand back and watch her line up her drive.
For years, she’s been trying to outdrive me.
And Chad. But mostly me. She hasn’t said it out loud, but when you play with someone as much as I’ve played with Shelby over the years, I know her tells.
I know when she’s working on something. I know when she’s determined to reach a goal.
And right now, it’s to go toe-to-toe with me in driving distance.
And while I don’t know if it can happen, I sure as shit know she’s going to kill herself trying.
I watch intently as she takes her backswing, but I know it’s going to be a disaster before the club reaches the top of her swing. Her weight is all off. Her hands, feet, and hips are all out of sync. Oh this is going to be so bad.
“Fuck!”
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh at Shelby’s outburst, even though it is the right response.
The ball went so high, I lost it for a second in the sun, but it barely went over a hundred yards.
I’m not sure what Chad was thinking telling her this—unless he wanted to seriously fuck up her game—but this isn’t going to help her.
She hangs her head, starting to walk back toward our bags, when I toss another ball at her, landing next to her feet.
“What’s this?”
“A ball.”
She rolls her eyes at me, which always makes me snicker. I don’t know what it is about getting under her skin, but every time I do it, I consider it a point of pride.
“I already hit my ball.”
“I know.” I let out a frustrated breath because I don’t know why she’s even fighting this. “Hit another one. But this time, get rid of that shit grip.”
She shakes her head. “I already hit my ball.”
“It’s called a mulligan.”
“Mulligans aren’t allowed.”
Golf is all about rules. Rules and tradition are what make the game what it is. But we’re not playing in a tournament, or even in our junior league. It’s just me and Shelby playing a round after dinner.
“Then don’t consider it a mulligan,” I say as I walk toward her. “Consider it a practice shot.”
Shelby looks down at the ball, then back up at me, then back down at the ball like it's going to grow legs and attack her.
“Do you think anybody will get mad?”
“It’s just the two of us on this course. No one is gonna get mad. And if they do, they’ll have to deal with me.”
I know she's always been worried about what other golfers think about her. It sucks to see how differently she’s treated by the regulars here.
It’s a public golf course, for God’s sake.
It’s not like we’re at Augusta, or even the fancy country club I play at because Chad’s family are members.
Shelby has proven time and time again that she's the real deal. I don't think the old men on this course realize they’re watching a future professional golfer. All they see is a girl who has the audacity to play their sport. They don’t see that even though she’s only fourteen, she’s better than most of the adults here.
I hate that for her. So I know why she doesn’t want to hit the second ball. But what she doesn’t know is that, more than that, I really don’t want to see her use that weird-ass grip again.
“Can I help you?” I ask, walking up behind her. “I just want to show you what’s helped me.”
She looks around again, making sure we’re alone, before nodding her head.
“Okay,” I say as she turns to face her ball. “First thing, don’t do that dumbass grip Chad suggested. I know he uses it, but frankly, I think it’s because he has weird muscles, because it doesn’t look comfortable.”
That makes her laugh. “It’s the worst.”